A LIFE TRAGEDY.
Not a word or a gesture escaped Brandon during the perusal, but after
he had finished he read the whole through twice, then laying it down, he
paced up and down the room. His olive skin had become of a sickly tawny
hue, his eyes glowed with intense lustre, and his brow was covered with
those gloomy Napoleonic clouds, but not a nerve was shaken by the shock
of this dread intelligence.
Evening came and night; and the night passed, and morning came, but it
found him still there pacing the room.
Earlier than usual next morning he was at the office, and waited for
some time before the senior partner made his appearance. When he came in
it was with a smile on his face, and a general air of congratulation to
all the world.
“Well, Brandon,” said he, cordially, “that last shipment has turned
out finely. More than a thousand pounds. And it’s all your doing. I
objected, but you were right. Let me congratulate you.”
Something in Brandon’s face seemed to surprise the old gentleman, and
he paused for a moment. “Why what’s the matter, my boy?” he said, in
a paternal voice. “You have not heard any bad news, I hope, in that
letter--I hope it’s nothing serious?”
Brandon gave a faint smile.
“Serious enough,” said he, looking away with an abstracted gaze, “to put
a sudden end to my Australian career.”
“Oh no--oh no!” said the other, earnestly; “not so bad as that.”
“I must go home at once.”
“Oh well, that may be, but you will be back again. Take a leave of
absence for five years if you wish, but don’t quit for good. I’ll do the
business and won’t complain, my boy. I’ll keep your place comfortable
for you till your return.”
Brandon’s stern face softened as he looked at the old man, whose
features were filled with the kindest expression, and whose tone showed
the affectionate interest which he felt.
“Your kindness to me, Mr. Compton,” said he, very slowly, and with deep
feeling, “has been beyond all words. Ever since I first came to this
country you have been the truest and the best of friends. I hope you
know me well enough to believe that I can never forget it. But now all
this is at an end, and all the bright prospects that I had here must
give way to the call of the sternest duty. In that letter which I
received last night there came a summons home which I can not neglect,
and my whole life hereafter must be directed toward the fulfillment of
that summons. From mid-day yesterday until dawn this morning I paced
my room incessantly, laying out my plans for the future thus suddenly
thrust upon me, and though I have not been able to decide upon any thing
definite, yet I see plainly that nothing less than a life will enable me
to accomplish my duty. The first thing for me to do is to acquaint you
with this and to give up my part in the business.”
Mr. Compton placed his elbow on the table near which he had seated
himself, leaned his head upon his hand, and looked at the floor. From
Brandon’s tone he perceived that this resolution was irrevocable. The
deep dejection which he felt could not be concealed. He was silent for a
long time.
“God knows,” said he, at last, “that I would rather have failed in
business than that this should have happened.”
Brandon looked away and said nothing.
“It comes upon me so suddenly,” he continued. “I do not know what to
think. And how can I manage these vast affairs without your assistance?
For you were the one who did our business. I know that well. I had no
head for it.”
“You can reduce it to smaller proportions.” said Brandon; “that can
easily be done.”
The old man sighed.
“After all,” he continued, “it is not the business. It’s losing you that
I think of, dear boy. I’m not thinking of the business at all. My grief
is altogether about your departure. I grieve, too, at the blow which
must have fallen on you to make this necessary.”
“The blow is a heavy one,” said Brandon; “so heavy that every thing else
in life must be forgotten except the one thought--how to recover from
it; and perhaps, also,” he added, in a lower voice, “how to return it.”
Mr. Compton was silent for a long time, and with every minute the deep
dejection of his face and manner increased. He folded his arms and shut
his eyes in deep thought.
“My boy,” said he at last, in that same paternal tone which he had used
before, and in a mild, calm voice. “I suppose this thing can not be
helped, and all that is left for me to do is to bear it as best I may.
I will not indulge in any selfish sorrow in the presence of your greater
trouble. I will rather do all in my power to coincide with your wishes.
I see now that you must have a good reason for your decision, although I
do not seek to look into that reason.”
“Believe me,” said Brandon, “I would show you the letter at once, but it
is so terrible that I would rather that you should not know. It is worse
than death, and I do not even yet begin to know the worst.”
The old man sighed, and looked at him with deep commiseration.
“If our separation must indeed be final,” said he, at last, “I will take
care that you shall suffer no loss. You shall have your full share of
the capital.”
“I leave that entirely to you,” said Brandon.
“Fortunately our business is not much scattered. A settlement can easily
be made, and I will arrange it so that you shall not have any loss. Our
balance-sheet was made out only last month, and it showed our firm to be
worth thirty thousand pounds. Half of this is yours, and--”
“Half!” interrupted the other. “My dear friend, you mean a quarter.”
The old man waved his hand.
“I said half, and I mean half.”
“I will never consent.”
“You must.”
“Never.”
“You shall. Why, think of the petty business that I was doing when
you came here. I was worth about four thousand. You have built up the
business to its present dimensions. Do you suppose that I don’t know?”
“I can not allow you to make such a sacrifice,” said Brandon.
“Stop,” said Mr. Compton. “I have not said all. I attach a condition to
this which I implore you not to refuse. Listen to me, and you will then
be able to see.”
Mr. Compton rose and looked carefully out into the office. There was no
one near. He then returned, locked the door, and drawing his chair close
to Brandon, began, in a low voice:
“You have your secrets and I have mine. I don’t wish to know yours, but
my own I am going to tell to you, not merely for the sake of sympathy,
but rather for the sake of your assistance. I am going to tell you who I
am, and why I came out here.
“My name is not Compton. It is Henry Lawton. All my early life was
passed at York. There I married, had a son, and lived happily for
years--in fact, during the childhood of my boy.
“It was that boy of mine, Edgar, that led to all my troubles. I suppose
we indulged him too much. It was natural. He was our only child, and so
we ruined him. He got beyond our control at last and used to run about
the streets of York. I did what I could to save him, but it was too
late.
“He went on from bad to worse, until at last he got in with a set of
miscreants who were among the worst in the country. My God! to think how
my boy, once a sweet child, could have fallen so low. But he was weak,
and easily led, and so he went on from bad to worse.
“I can not bear to go into particulars,” said the old man, after a long
pause. “I will come at once to point. My poor, wretched boy got in with
these miscreants, as I was telling you, and I did not see him from one
month’s end to another. At last a great burglary took place. Three were
arrested. Among these two were old offenders, hardened in vice, the one
named Briggs, the other Crocker; the third was my unhappy boy.”
The old man was silent for some time.
“I do not think, after all, that he was guilty: but Briggs turned King’s
Evidence, and Crocker and my son were condemned to transportation. There
was no help.
“I sold out all I had in the world, and in compliance with the
entreaties of my poor wife, who nearly went mad with grief, I came out
here. I changed my name to Compton. My boy’s term was for three years. I
began a business out here, and as my boy behaved well he was able to get
permission to hire out as a servant. I took him nominally as my servant,
for no one knew that he was my son, and so we had him with us again.
“I hoped that the bitter lesson which he had learned would prove
beneficial, but I did not know the strength of evil inclinations. As
long as his term of imprisonment lasted he was content and behaved well;
but at last, when the three years were up, he began to grow restive.
Crocker was freed at about the same time and my boy fell again under his
evil influence. This lasted for about a year, when, at last, one morning
a letter was brought me from him stating that he had gone to India. My
poor wife was again nearly distracted. She thought of nothing but her
boy. She made me take her and go in search of him again. So we went
to India. After a long search I found him there, as I had feared, in
connection with his old, vicious associates. True, they had changed
their names, and were trying to pass for honest men. Crocker called
himself Clark, and Briggs called himself Potts.”
“Potts,” cried Brandon.
“Yes,” said the other, who was too absorbed in his own thoughts to
notice the surprise of Brandon. “He was in the employ of Colonel
Despard, at Calcutta, and enjoyed much of his confidence.”
“What year was this?” asked Brandon.
“1825,” replied Mr. Compton. “Crocker,” he continued, “was acting as a
sort of shipping agent, and my son was his clerk. Of course, my first
efforts were directed toward detaching my son from these scoundrels.
I did all that I could. I offered to give him half of my property, and
finally all, if he would only leave them forever and come back. The
wretched boy refused. He did not appear to be altogether bad, but he had
a weak nature, and could not get rid of the influence of these men.
“I staid in India for a year and a half, until I found at last that
there was no hope. I could find nothing to do there, and if I remained
I would have to starve or go out to service. This I could not think of
doing. So I prepared to come back here. But my wife refused to leave her
son. She was resolved, she said, to stay by him till the last. I tried
to dissuade her, but could not move her. I told her that I could not
be a domestic. She said that she could do even that for the sake of her
boy. And she went off at once and got a situation as nurse with the same
Colonel Despard with whom Briggs, or, as he called himself, Potts, was
staying.”
“What was the Christian name of this Potts?” asked Brandon, calmly.
“John--John Potts.”
Brandon said nothing further, and Compton resumed.
“Thus my wife actually left me. I could not stay and be a slave. So I
made her promise to write me, and told her that I would send her as much
money as I could. She clung to me half broken-hearted as I left her.
Our parting was a bitter one--bitter enough: but I would rather break my
heart with grief than be a servant. Besides, she knew that whenever she
came back my heart was open to receive her.
“I came back to my lonely life out here and lived for nearly two years.
At last, in September 1828, a mail arrived from India bringing a letter
from my wife and Indian papers. The news which they brought well-nigh
drove me mad.”
Compton buried his face in his hands and remained silent for some time.
“You couldn’t have been more than a child at that time, but perhaps you
may have heard of the mysterious murder of Colonel Despard?”
He looked inquiringly at Brandon, but the latter gave no sign.
[Illustration: “THERE’S SOME MYSTERY ABOUT IT WHICH I CAN’T FATHOM.”]
“Perhaps not,” he continued--“no: you were too young, of course. Well,
it was in the _Vishnu_, a brig in which the Colonel had embarked for
Manilla. The brig was laden with hogshead staves and box shooks, and
the Colonel went there partly for his health, partly on business, taking
with him his valet Potts.”
“What became of his family?” interrupted Brandon.
“He had a son in England at school. His wife had died not long before
this at one of the hill stations, where she had gone for her health.
Grief may have had something to do with the Colonel’s voyage, for he was
very much attached to his wife.
“Mails used only to come at long intervals in those days and this one
brought the account not only of the Colonel’s fate, but of the trial at
Manilla and the execution of the man that was condemned.
“It was a very mysterious case. In the month of July a boat arrived at
Manilla which carried the crew and one passenger from the brig
_Vishnu_. One of the men, a Malay named Uracao, was in irons, and he was
immediately given up to the authorities.”
“Who were the others?”
“Potts, as he called himself, the Colonel’s valet, Clark, three Lascars,
and the Captain, an Italian named Cigole. Information was at once laid
against the Malay. Potts was the chief witness. He said that he slept
in the cabin while the Colonel slept in an inner state-room; that one
morning early he was roused by a frightful shriek and saw Uracao rushing
from the Colonel’s state-room. He sprang up, chased him, and caught him
just as he was about to leap overboard. His creese covered with blood
was in his hand. The Colonel, when they went to look at him, had his
throat cut from ear to ear. Clark swore that he was steering the vessel
and saw Potts catch Uracao, and helped to hold him. The Captain, Cigole,
swore that he was waked by the noise, and rushed out in time to see
this. Clark had gone as mate of the vessel. Of the Lascars, two had been
down below, but one was on deck and swore to have seen the same. On this
testimony Uracao was condemned and executed.”
“How did they happen to leave the brig?”
“They said that a great storm came up about three days’ sail from
Manilla, the vessel sprang a leak, and they had to take to the boat.
Their testimony was very clear indeed, and there were no contradictions;
but in spite of all this it was felt to be a very mysterious case, and
even the exhibition of the Malay creese, carefully covered with the
stains of blood, did not altogether dispel this feeling.”
“Have you got the papers yet, or are there any in Sydney that contain an
account of this affair?”
“I have kept them all. You may read the whole case if you care about
it.”
“I should like to, very much,” said Brandon, with great calmness.
“When I heard of this before the mail was opened I felt an agony of fear
lest my miserable boy might be implicated in some way. To my immense
relief his name did not occur at all.”
“You got a letter from your wife?” said Brandon, interrogatively.
“Yes,” said the old man, with a sigh. “The last that I ever received
from her. Here it is.” And, saying this, he opened his pocket-book and
took out a letter, worn and faded, and blackened by frequent readings.
Brandon took it respectfully, and read the following:
“CALCUTTA, August 15, 1828.
“MY DEAREST HENRY,--By the papers that I send you, you will see what has
occurred. Our dear Edgar is well, indeed better than usual, and I would
feel much cheered if it were not for the sad fate of the poor Colonel.
This is the last letter that you will ever receive from me. I am going
to leave this country never to return, and do not yet know where I will
go. Wherever I go I will be with my darling Edgar. Do not worry about me
or about him. It will be better for you to try and forget all about us,
since we are from this time the same as dead to you. Good-by forever, my
dearest husband; it shall be my daily prayer that God may bless you.
“Your affectionate wife, MARY.”
Brandon read this in silence, and handed it back.
“A strange letter,” said Compton mournfully. “At first it gave a bitter
pang to think of my Mary thus giving me up forever, so coldly, and for
no reason: but afterward I began to understand why she wrote this.
“My belief is, that these villains kept my son in their clutches for
some good reason, and that they had some equally good reason for keeping
her. There’s some mystery about it which I can’t fathom. Perhaps she
knew too much about the Colonel’s affairs to be allowed to go free. They
might have detained her by working upon her love for her son, or simply
by terrifying her. She was always a timid soul, poor Mary. That letter
is not her composition: there is not a word there that sounds like her,
and they no doubt told her what to write, or wrote out something, and
made her copy it.
“And now,” said Compton, after another long pause, “I have got to the
end of my story. I know nothing more about them. I have lived here ever
since, at first despairing, but of late more resigned to my lot. Yet
still if I have one desire in life it is to get some trace of these dear
ones whom I still love as tenderly as ever. You, my dear boy, with your
ability may conjecture some way. Besides, you will perhaps be traveling
more or less, and may be able to hear of their fate. This is the
condition that I make. I implore you by your pity for a heart-broken
father to do as I say and help me. Half! why, I would give all that I
have if I could get them back again.”
Brandon shuddered perceptibly at the words “heart-broken father;” but he
quickly recovered himself. He took Compton’s hand and pressed it warmly.
“Dear friend, I will make no objection to any thing, and I promise you
that all my best efforts shall he directed toward finding them out.”
“Tell them to come to me, that I am rich, and can make them happy.”
“I’ll make them go to you if they are alive,” said Brandon.
“God bless you!” ejaculated the old man, fervently.
Brandon spent the greater part of that day in making business
arrangements, and in reading the papers which Compton had preserved
containing an account of the Despard murder.
It was late at night before he returned to his hotel. As he went into
the hall he saw a stranger sitting there in a lounging attitude reading
the Sydney _News_.
He was a thin, small-sized man, with a foreign air, and quick, restless
manner. His features were small, a heavy beard and mustache covered
his face, his brow was low, and his eyes black and twinkling. A sharp,
furtive glance which he gave at Brandon attracted the attention of the
latter, for there was something in the glance that meant more than idle
curiosity.
Even in the midst of his cares Brandon’s curiosity was excited. He
walked with assumed indifference up to the desk as though looking for
the key of his room. Glancing at the hotel book his eye ranged down the
column of names till it rested on the last one.
“_Pietro Cigole_.” --Cigole! the name brought singular associations.
Had this man still any connection with Potts? The words of his father’s
letter rushed into his mind--“His arm may reach even to the antipodes
to strike you. Be on your guard. Watch every one. He has some dark plan
against you.”
With these thoughts in his mind Brandon went up to his room.